


Nasty

by brashbelle



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 04:56:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17822312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brashbelle/pseuds/brashbelle
Summary: Baz is a sarcastic son of a bitch, even when he's being right snogged.





	Nasty

Snow has been kiss happy lately. I don’t want to be dramatic, but it feels like the first spring after a long winter. Not a winter I’d ever blame him for, mind—the mage is a fantastic reason to go celibate, in my book—but I would be lying by omission if I didn’t say I was enjoying the new warmth. Snow kisses like fire. Playing around with matches and lit cigarettes seems almost kidlike in comparison to his lips on me.

Last time we were like this, he kept digging his teeth into the fabric of my shirt. He growled a little, which did nothing to me whatsoever (Ha, yeah right.) and muttered something about the way cotton was bad on the taste-buds. I was ready to tell him that if it bothered him so badly, then why not do something about it. My tongue had curled, preparing to push the quip out, when I realized that I would be essentially daring Snow to undress me.

I was struck by an unexpected wave of hesitation. Not that he wouldn’t pull my shirt off--he would, honor-bound by the laws of the teenage-wizarding dare and his hindbrain. Just, well, what if he stared at me for too long? Scrunched his nose? What if his face wasn’t unequivocally pleased in every which way? Or, even more terrifying, what if he wanted it? What if he wanted it so much after he saw more that he devoured me entirely?

What if I liked it?

Snow--oblivious, clueless Snow--looked up at my face in that moment and proceeded with the most definitive nose scrunch of what was likely his entire life up until that point. (I have a feeling I'll cause him more in the future; time will tell just how scrunchy they are.) “Are you, um--”

“Out with it, Snow.”

“Simon.” His breath on my throat was pure agony. “Are you OK? You look a little--weird.”

And, because that is the most insensitive, unsexy thing someone could have the balls to tell you during a right snogging session, I decided that, even if I did want it, want it very badly in fact, Snow was most certainly not getting it that evening. I wanked in the shower, after. Because that, at the time, felt like the lesser strain on my pride.

I’m so much smoother when I’m not interacting with him. I hate to confess it, but it’s true.

Snow has his lips and teeth burrowed into the underside of my jaw. I hold my head still and limit my breathing, playing dead (heh.), hoping that will lull him into staying here. His mouth is sharp and sweet and every good, boyish thing I can think of. He smells like discount shampoo and mint toothpaste. I feel disgustingly charmed that he clearly planned for this--him and I, a date on top of his comforter.

“I want--” Snow’s touch is a brand on my waist through the thin fabric of my button-down. I’m nervous that when he removes it will still be there. That I’ll be the new owner of a red handprint that I’ll never be able to adequately explain away. Why would someone grab you there, for something other than this? This, or more. This, or sex. What if I can never strip in the locker room again without others seeing ‘Simon was here’ written into my flesh?

It sounds like one of my fifth year fantasties. Those stories I’d weave myself in the morning with the bathroom curtains blotted (I couldn’t wank in the same room as him back then--it felt guilt-ridden enough in the dark with the shower on full blast and a whole wall between us). Simon wouldn’t dain to talk to me in them, but he would still get his point across through a certain set of actions. Those types of fantasties always involved pain. Pain of some sort (there are so many different kinds).

Snow rubs. He rubs, and he strokes, and he skims. He does all sorts of things with his hands, a few with his pelvis, and I want to climb him--every short, little inch of him. I want to twine myself into him, until I’m more Snow than me.

Dangerous, these thoughts.

Snow breaks for air. He scratches his jaw, just looking at me, biting down hard on his lip. Even his moles appear to be flushing.

“What, Snow?” I bark. Tell me. Tell me, and I’ll give it to you.

“Simon?” Softer, an almost immediate surrender (the things he does to me--that I let him do). I even try calling him love, but the combination of his staring and the weight of him on top of me makes it come out in tatters.

I want to hide my face with my hair. I think maybe Simon will call me weird again, and then I’ll have to push him onto the floor. Gently, of course. We don’t need another staircase episode.

“I just— I don’t— If you—“ And then, after that glorious declaration, he hooks a fist into the back of his shirt and pulls it straight off in one single, sweet motion. Suddenly, a whole new range of moles are available to my lips. I feel wetness—in my head, in my mouth, and down there. Everywhere.

Simon shakes his head like a dog. His curls fly. “What I want to say is—if you want—“ I kiss him. Partly to shut him up, partly for other reasons. He seems pretty pleased with it on any account, so I’m pretty pleased with it as well.

Taking off my shirt when Simon is already bared isn’t so bad. It probably says something about my ability to be vulnerable--the fact that I always want him going first. I’d worry about it more, but it’s like Simon doesn’t even notice some of the shit he does. He bulldozers his way into affections--”Baz, Baz, Baz,” and “I like you, so much.”--and continues right on like he didn’t just cause me new-found respiratory problems. He’s not romantic (the subtle art of such a thing would never catch on for him), but he’s not opposed to honesty and the concept of saying just what you feel. In this way, I think he might still be a bit magical.

Simon’s tongue makes a beeline for my nipple, and I reflexively shove my chest into his teeth. “Careful.” I hiss, but the hiss reads more desperate than anything mean.

“Huh,” Simon exclaims, like the moron he is (Crowley, I love this man.) “I was wondering if--uh, nevermind.”

“What?”

“I said nevermind.”

“Tell me.” I say, because when someone tells you 'nevermind' they most definitely have a juicy piece of gossip. Or something secret that might split your view of them wide open.

“I mean like--fine. I don’t mind telling you. Just don’t hit me or anything.” Simon’s nose does a soft nudge to the side of my nipple. It stings. I wonder if I have indentions there from his teeth. A vampire with an oral fetish--great, I’m a stereotype. “I was just curious. You know, as to whether guys had the same sort of sensitivity.”

Immediately, because I can put together one and two, I’m assaulted with flash-images of Simon lapping at Wellbelove’s breasts. You’d probably think this is hellish or something, and it is, but you know by now that I’m attracted to fire and numbskulls and the blood of rodents. I’ve already thought about Simon fucking Wellbelove. I’ve gotten off to it, in fact.

I liked imagining him deep in someone, growling, sweat everywhere. Sticky. The way his hips would rotate, the sheer force of him denting the wall behind them with the impression of headboard. I thought he’d be keen on it--having his cock wet and warm and all wrapped up. Wellbelove was nothing more than a willing hole in those imaginings, my interests not to do with her, which even I admit to be rather crass, but by then my thoughts already felt so debasing that I saw no reason not to go further.

Hearing him reference her, when we’re like this--it makes my stomach do a discomforting sort of thrum. Like a curious nail dug just a bit too far into skin. It’s not a good feeling.

Still. “Did you fuck her, Wellbelove?” I need to know. I want every awful ‘nevermind’ to come right out of his mouth.

“I—no.”

“Did you want to?”

“Baz—“ Simon gasps. I can feel the outline of his dick. It's hot at my side. Ready.

“Did you?” I swallow about five heartbeats and half a blush, and then I skim my middle finger in a hesitant arc over the bulge in his trousers.

“Yes.” He sounds like he’s at confession, with the guilt and everything. “I mean—she was my girlfriend. We never went past shirts, though.” He’s looking down at me, like he wants to be careful. I don’t need Simon to be careful. In fact, I prefer the thought of being up close and personal with every rough and messy part of him. I want him to tell me all of it. I want to tell him all of it, too. He can’t go off anymore—at least, not dangerously.

“How often did you think about it?” I slowly press down with the palm of my hand. Simon grunts, like I pushed the air right out of him. My trousers—I want them off. I bring my other hand to the opening, tapping a nail against the plastic button. I’m trying to be obvious. I feel ridiculous. That ugly feeling goes down with my other ugly feelings, then bubbles back up on a wave of Simon Snow’s mint toothpaste and something else in me from those fifth year fantasies. The really bad ones, the ones I try not the think about.

Simon notices, because he’s not completely inept, and it sends him into a flurry. He’s pushing forward, hands bumping mine away. He pops the plastic button on my trousers, and I lift my hips for him as he pulls them and my underclothes right off. They land somewhere on the other side of the room. I really don't care where.

“This alright?” Simon pants. His eyes look a little buggy. It is his first time making intimate acquaintances with a cock not his own, after all, so I don’t have the heart to make fun. If I even still have a heart. I'm no so sure; Simon thinks yes. 

“Yes. Yes, Simon. It’s good; you’re good.”

“I thought—sometimes, I felt bad, thinking about it--”

“Tell me _everything_.”

And he does.


End file.
